Blood Symmetry (9 page)

‘Feel like cooking?' I asked. ‘I'll be in the kitchen.'

He stole into the room too quietly for me to hear. His jeans and T-shirt looked as if they'd been borrowed from an older boy, swamping his thin frame. When I smiled at him the corners of his mouth quirked upwards for the first time, so I took a chance.

‘If you ever want a hug, that would be fine. Even adults need them sometimes.' He stayed rooted to the spot. ‘But right now, I could use a kitchen helper. Can you find a pan for the spaghetti?'

It was clear Denise Thorpe had been right about Mikey enjoying time in the kitchen with his mum. He chopped tomatoes and lettuce for salad and stirred the ragù sauce until it came to the boil. I kept up a steady flow of talk, telling him about where I'd grown up and places I'd gone on holiday, familiarity helping him relax. When we sat down to eat he managed a bigger meal than last time, but still looked haunted, his eyes never focusing on anything for long. It was difficult to judge how much of my monologue he'd heard.

Clare Riordan had trained her son so well that even on autopilot he remembered kitchen etiquette. He piled his plate and cutlery into the dishwasher, eyes still glassy. We spent the evening playing card games. A couple of times his lips formed shapes, but no words emerged. I made sure that he followed Gurpreet's routine, sending him off for a bath at nine o'clock. When I checked on him again he was in his room, the single bed swamping him, nightlight burning at his side.

‘Sleepy?' I asked.

‘Not far now,' he murmured.

His thin arms lay on top of the duvet and I let my hand settle on his wrist, but his expression was unchanged. I wanted to ask what he meant, but there was no point. He was trapped in a daydream too absorbing to penetrate.

The living room felt even more smothering when I got back downstairs. I twisted the key to open the French window and stepped outside. The garden was in darkness, apart from a glow of streetlight above the fence. The space felt almost as claustrophobic as the house, with tree ferns and cordylines crowding the lawn, the air filled with the odour of rotting leaves. If the place were mine, I'd have uprooted most of the undergrowth to give myself breathing space. The only sounds I could hear were the city's murmur of traffic, someone laughing in the distance, and branches shifting in the breeze. I can't explain why the garden spooked me, apart from its dense shadows; the stress of the case was making my nerves jangle. I checked every door and window was locked when I got back inside, but the sight of the squad car parked by the porch restored my calm. A middle-aged uniform with a morose expression sat inside the vehicle; no one could approach the building without him raising the alarm.

It was eleven thirty when I put my head round Mikey's door again. I switched off his bedside light, reassured by the slow regularity of his breathing. Knowing that he was fast asleep helped me relax when I finally lay down, even though the midnight-blue walls of the bedroom made me homesick for the pale decor of my flat.

A loud noise woke me just after two a.m. I flung on my bathrobe and raced across the landing towards the penetrating scream that came from Mikey's room. He was sitting up in bed, releasing a wail of protest, eyes staring. I sat on the bed to hold him. At first he tried to pull away, then stopped fighting, his thin arms locking round my waist.

‘You're safe, sweetheart.' When I stroked his forehead, panic had plastered his hair to his skin. ‘What did you dream?'

His face pressed against my shoulder, jaw clicking like a rusted hinge. ‘I left her there,' he whispered.

‘You had no choice, Mikey. Can you say what happened next?'

I carried on holding him, fighting my urge to bombard him with questions. He had already slipped behind his wall of silence and any attempt to probe could make him retreat permanently; after a while his arms slackened and I smoothed his covers again, leaving the light burning. The long embrace might have calmed him, but it had the opposite effect on me. I lay in the dark, fretting about what would happen if his mother was never found.

I
was washing strawberries for breakfast when Mikey appeared in the kitchen at eight a.m., still in his pyjamas. I put my arm round his shoulder to give him a gentle squeeze.

‘Morning, sweetheart. Do you want cereal with these?'

He nestled closer. Clearly it was physical reassurance he'd wanted, not food. He burrowed against me as I switched off the tap with my free hand and pulled him closer for a hug. It made sense that he would connect with a female carer more easily than a man, just as Christine had predicted; he'd lived alone with his mother since he was five, his father's presence a distant memory. It took a conscious effort to retain my professionalism. My work as a psychologist had taught me that compassion was necessary but empathy was pointless. Letting your heart bleed resulted in poor judgements, yet I couldn't suppress my desire to spring Mikey from the confines of the safe house and care for him in my flat.

The boy's face blanched as I prepared to leave when Gurpreet arrived. Maybe he expected me to vanish permanently, like his parents, one by one. He retreated to his usual position in the living room, and I saw that he was clutching the London
A–Z
that had been lying on the hall table. I crouched in front of him but he wouldn't meet my eye.

‘I'll be back tomorrow, I promise.'

He dropped his gaze to the book, keeping his face averted. After my handover meeting with Gurpreet, I escaped into the
street, thoughts churning. I gazed back at the safe house. While Clare Riordan's son was walled inside its airless rooms, someone was holding her captive, harvesting blood at regular intervals. And that was the best-case scenario. She might already be dead. Although I sensed that her abductor was enjoying the chase too much to finish it soon. What had Riordan done to warrant that kind of punishment? The act seemed loaded with symbolism, too organised for a random act of sadism, and although the MO altered with each attack, the abduction could be part of a campaign. But the attack on Riordan differed from the quick slaughter of John Mendez. Her suffering was so protracted, it still made me believe that she was connected to her abductors in some way, the vengeance far more personal.

Angie was waiting for me at Belsize Park Tube at ten thirty, her pixie-like face avid as she checked messages on her phone. During the years we'd worked together, I'd never seen her do anything by half measures. I'd asked to meet the only member of staff Riordan had sacked from her department at the Royal Free, who lacked a convincing alibi: her name was Moira Fitzgerald, single, thirty years old. My heart sank when I saw the skyscraper that housed her apartment. It was a featureless concrete rectangle, without balconies or gardens to soften its hard edges. Living there would have forced me to pack my bags and leave London. The lifts were out of order, forcing us to walk to the eighth floor.

‘I should renew my gym membership,' Angie panted.

The woman who answered the door seemed to be bouncing with more physical energy than she could contain, like a gymnast or ballet dancer. Moira Fitzgerald was medium height, slender, shifting from foot to foot as she welcomed us with an overstretched smile. She was pretty, with sable-coloured hair that fell past her shoulders, straight as rain. Her
Irish accent gave her statements a gentle lilt as she led us inside. Her bedsit was so minute that her desk pressed against her narrow single bed, which seemed to double as a settee; a TV balanced precariously on top of a bookshelf. The three of us were almost touching elbows as we squeezed round the table in her kitchenette.

‘Is this about Clare?' Her smile dimmed for the first time.

I nodded. ‘You'll have heard that she's missing. We're tracing people who know her to see if they can shed light on her disappearance.'

‘I haven't seen her all year. To be honest, I haven't got much to say.'

Angie sat forwards in her seat. ‘How do you mean?'

Moira's blue eyes hardened. ‘I gave up my job at Bart's to be senior nurse clinician in her department. It was the job I'd always wanted. After six months she gave me a great appraisal, all smiles and congratulations, then weeks later she fired me.'

‘Did she explain why?'

‘Budget cuts, of course, but it was the way she did it. I was out of her office in five minutes flat, no apologies.' Her cheeks reddened as she spoke.

‘That sounds tough,' Angie commented.

‘I complained but the HR guys took her side. I've been doing agency work ever since; the hours are crap and there's no security. Senior nursing vacancies are like needles in a haystack.' Fitzgerald's voice had lost its softness, tone sour enough to curdle milk.

‘Can you think of a reason why Clare would be taken?' I asked.

‘She treats people like dirt. Maybe that pissed someone off.' Her eyes fizzed with anger, but I could see she was holding her feelings in check. ‘Of course I'm sorry about what's happened, but she got a kick out of hurting me, I could tell.'

I gave a slow nod, then glanced around the small room. ‘Have you always lived here alone, Moira?'

She released a huff of laughter. ‘Where would I put a flatmate? That's another story. I was so down about losing my job, my boyfriend chucked me.'

The air in the small room resonated with ill feeling. For once Angie fell silent, clearly more interested in observing the nurse's reactions than asking questions. Fitzgerald seemed so upset by her redundancy that the events might have happened yesterday, rather than a year before. When I quizzed her about her alibi, the nurse claimed that she had been filling out a job application at home at the time of Riordan's abduction.

Angie reserved her comments until we reached the landing. ‘Not Clare's number one fan, is she?'

‘She took away her dream job. Moira seems to blame Riordan for her relationship failing too.' When I gazed down from the landing, a bird's-eye view of the compound of the Royal Free was visible two blocks away. Confronting her former workplace every time she stepped outside must be keeping the nurse's anger alive.

‘Do you think she's upset enough to hurt someone?' Angie asked as we trotted back down the stairs.

‘It's possible, but this could be part of a series. If it is, we need to know if she'd met Lisa Stuart and John Mendez.'

‘I'll do some digging.'

Angie said a quick goodbye before racing back to her car. I set off for the FPU at a slower pace, mulling over Fitzgerald's comments. Despite her bitterness it seemed unlikely that a nurse would have her former boss abducted simply because she'd been sacked, but it threw a new light on Riordan's behaviour. It sounded as if she could be tyrannical, making enemies among those she ruled, yet able to impress her seniors.

B
urns was waiting for me at Butler's Wharf at nine that evening, sitting outside the Brewhouse, gazing vacantly ahead, as though he lacked the strength to stand.

‘Feed me,' he said. ‘Then get me drunk and seduce me in the back of a cab.'

‘All that in one evening?'

We ended up in a Turkish restaurant on Borough High Street, eating grilled halloumi, followed by marinaded lamb, with a bottle of house red. I sat beside him in the narrow booth, a candle guttering on the table.

‘Tell me what's happened.'

He took a slug of wine. ‘My lot have been chasing those names you found, but it's not conclusive. Mendez's attack looks like an opportunistic mugging – knife wound to the heart, phone and laptop stolen. Lisa Stuart was last seen cycling home from work, around ten p.m. None of her credit cards have been used since. She's probably dead but hasn't been found.'

‘There must be a link, Don.'

‘The three of them trained at different hospitals. Mendez and Stuart both worked at Bart's, but not at the same time. They didn't attend the same conferences or training courses. We're looking at their social lives: hobbies, sports clubs, holidays. So far, nothing matches.'

‘Three blood doctors being attacked in one city in a ten-month period can't be a coincidence.'

‘Thousands of violent assaults happen here every year.' Burns shrugged. ‘What did you think of the nurse Riordan sacked?'

‘Angry as hell, but that's not enough to make her a credible suspect. She seems too isolated to be able to convince anyone to help her drag Clare into the getaway car.'

‘She was at Bart's the same time as Lisa Stuart. Angie's looking into it.'

‘I need to see the primary evidence in Mendez's and Stuart's crime files.'

‘The archive's delivering it bright and early Sunday morning.' His frown deepened. ‘Denise Thorpe pitched up at the station today, wanting access to the Riordan boy. The woman's relentless.'

I thought of Clare's friend's odd house with its view across the cemetery. ‘That's understandable. If Lola went missing, I'd want Neve with me. She's under a lot of stress.'

‘She gives me the creeps, but her alibi checks out and so does her husband's. They were at her mum's care home early on the morning of the abduction. Their names are in the visitors' book, and a nurse saw them arrive.'

‘I'm more concerned about Sam Travers.'

‘Pete's team are doing an extended search at his house. He was lying about not seeing much of Clare; one of her neighbours says his car was outside her house several times a week. His documentary on the health service put him in contact with loads of medics. He was tracking staff at five different hospitals.'

‘So he could have met Mendez and Stuart?'

‘If he did, there's no record.'

‘Let me interview him again,' I said. ‘If Clare rejected him, he's got the biggest motive.'

‘I'll set it up.' Burns rubbed his hand across his jaw. ‘So far our earliest sighting of the kid is from a CCTV camera on Walworth Road at midday, staggering like he was drunk.'

‘Or drugged?'

‘Whatever they gave him had cleared his system by the time he was examined.' He pushed his plate away. ‘Can we take a break, just for half an hour?'

‘You want to make small talk with all this going on?'

‘Work doesn't stop when we down tools,' he said firmly. ‘My team are going flat out.'

‘Have you always been so rational?'

‘I'm a dour Scot, remember? Tell me your secrets, Alice.'

‘You know them all.'

‘I don't have a clue about your relationships before me.'

‘And that bothers you?' I took a sip of wine. ‘You want details.'

‘I'm trying to understand you.'

‘Why don't you go first?'

His smile reappeared. ‘Lorraine Salmond asked me out in year seven, then broke my heart a month later. I dated a girl at sixth-form college, but that ended in tears when I left for art school. After a few years of short flings Julie came along, when I was a newly qualified cop.'

‘She's the first girl you fell for?'

‘I met her at a party, she had the loudest laugh in the room.' He stared down at his empty plate. ‘Twelve good years, then it fell apart.'

‘Did Lorraine Salmond leave a mark?'

‘God, yeah. The little cow dumped me on my twelfth birthday.' He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Your turn, Alice, stop evading.'

I rolled my eyes. ‘Nothing serious until med school, then a doctor, dentist and a surgeon in quick succession. I spent a while alone, then there was a dance teacher and a defrocked priest. The rest you know.' I put down my wine glass. ‘How did I let the surgeon get away? He had navy blue eyes and played the piano beautifully.'

‘No one has navy blue eyes.'

‘He did.'

‘Did he break your heart?'

I shook my head. ‘It's still intact.'

He gaped at me. ‘You've never been in love?'

I leant back in my chair. ‘How much do you know about relationship psychology?'

‘Bugger all, obviously.' He leaned closer, eyes tracing my mouth.

‘Our intimacy patterns are fixed by age seven. If the blueprint's faulty, it takes work to correct it.'

‘Your parents had a bad marriage?'

‘With bells on.'

His fingers settled on my wrist. ‘But you're different. You like mending people.'

‘Patterns repeat themselves, don't they?'

‘Not if you work at it.'

‘Why not read the warning signs, Don? I'm not a great bet.'

‘That's for me to decide. I'd settle for a night with you in my bed instead of watching you leave.'

I bit my lip. ‘It's not deliberate, but you're right. Sex is the easy part.'

‘How long was your last relationship?'

‘Three weeks.'

‘You don't scare me, Alice.' His expression had changed: more understanding than desire, his frustration mellowing.

‘I feel safe with you, but it's no guarantee.'

‘Maybe your pattern's changing.' He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Come and meet my boys tomorrow night. They're staying at mine.'

‘I'll be at the safe house.'

His face darkened. ‘You're obsessed by that kid.'

‘I'm just doing my job. Everyone's let him down except his mum, and now she's gone too.'

Burns stayed silent, probably because he knew how I'd react to professional advice. At midnight we split the bill then he walked me home. He declined my offer of coffee, which
surprised me. Maybe it angered him that Mikey's welfare was my top priority, or he couldn't face the solitary walk home after making love. When I closed the curtains he was still standing on the pavement, huge and immovable, gazing up at my window. His stillness seemed to prove that he'd finally understood the challenge that lay ahead.